


After the Fall

by TheSleepingOne (SleepingNebula)



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Clone Wars (2003) - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Nobody is having a good time, Post-Order 66, Reunion, tagging as I go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:00:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22485232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepingNebula/pseuds/TheSleepingOne
Summary: Order Sixty-Six has gone live and the galaxy will never be the same again.The survivors are spread thin and isolated, desperate to reconnect with one another and regain any sense of normality.  But normality is hard to come by when you're being hunted by the very people you once called family and are in hiding.They try all the same.
Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi, CC-5052 | Bly/Aayla Secura
Comments: 27
Kudos: 194





	1. Obi-Wan

The thrum of the engines is quiet and constant. There are no dampeners on a ship this size – they’d be far too unwieldy to be of much use to a small cruiser designed for speed. He doesn’t mind so much, even managing to find comfort in the white noise that blocks out some of the voices in his head, but the baby… the baby has no such appreciation.

He cries and cries and cries. For his mother, for his sister.

For his father.

And there’s very little Obi-Wan can offer him, for he is none of the things this baby wants. He does his best, holding him close, whispering promises of safety, but the child is strong in the Force and he is betrayed by the uncertainty in his own signature that bleeds into every corner of the small hold.

He tries to reign it in, his turmoil and his sadness, but he’s exhausted and his shields are suffering under the strain of everything the last few days have thrown at him. Mustafar lurks in every shadow aboard and he finds himself jumping at phantoms that aren’t there. He can’t trust his own mind anymore and he certainly shouldn’t be around such a Force-perceptive child in his broken state, but there hadn’t been any other choice.

Vader had been there, moments from seizing his children.

Luke, in his first moments of life, had been in more danger than many ever experience throughout their entire existences. _But such is the curse of Force-sensitivity_ , Obi-Wan thinks ruefully, _to not know peace._

They’re alone now, on the small vessel, as it trundles the long way round to the rendezvous. Enough food and water to last them seventeen cycles and no more, but not enough clothes for a new-born, nor enough blankets, nor… He doesn’t think about it.

He’s doing his best. It might not be enough, but it’s all the galaxy has left him.

For now, Luke is mercifully quiet, as exhausted as Obi-Wan is from their adventures. He’s curled in his lap, wrapped in a robe in lieu of anything more appropriate. It leaves Obi-Wan to gaze at the stars as they trundle past. He daren’t go to lightspeed for fear of meeting the base early, before enough time has passed for it to be safe. It means he is alone with the stars, a volatile baby and his grief.

His only attempt at meditation had brought the fires of Mustafar rearing against his tattered inner peace and Cody’s warped voice ordering his death with a detached disinterest. He hadn’t been able to stop the tide of emotion that had welled up then, especially not when it had been carried by his own brother’s betrayal. He’d surfaced abruptly to Luke’s wails of terror and inconsolable sobbing.

He won’t try again until he’s alone.

Very alone.

It’s absurd he has to bite back a laugh at the thought of how far the Jedi Master, High Councillor of the Coruscanti Temple and High Jedi General of the Open Circle Fleet has fallen. Lower than the most untrained of younglings, no longer in control of his own mind and emotions and unable to negotiate with so much as a baby.

Luke coughs in his sleep but doesn’t wake and Obi-Wan drags his eyes from the stars down to the child. He looks like every new-born near-human he’s ever seen, too small and fragile to be anything else yet. It’s his aura that’s different, like a small sun, burning stubbornly against the clouded darkness of the Force. He can’t help but wonder if this child will take after either of his parents. For Luke’s own sake, Obi-Wan hopes he doesn’t. Neither of their ends had been merciful.

All he knows is that he would give his life to keep his brother’s son safe. His daughter too. They’re the best legacy Anakin could have hoped for, and Obi-Wan knows this legacy must be protected from Vader. Because if they should fall into the Sidious’ hands, then the Jedi have truly lost their last hope.

That he believes.

The time that passes is so uneventful, he almost doesn’t know what to do with himself. There’s little to be done aboard the ship besides prepare meals and care for the child. He finds he has no appetite and in the periods where his distraction sleeps, he grows dangerously introspective.

He knows it’s arrogant to assume that the corruption of someone as powerful as his brother is his sole fault, but the majority of the blame _does_ lie with him and his failings. Anakin was his to raise and guide, as any master must their padawan, and in that respect he’d failed. When Anakin had needed guidance the most, it had not been Obi-Wan he turned to, but the Sith Lord.

How can the blame for that not be laid at his feet?

They should have had no secretes. They were _the_ team, unbreakable.

Until they were broken.

And now the Republic has fallen to the Empire, Anakin to Vader. Two tiny life forms have been left in the wake of his padawan’s illicit affair, orphaned even as they took their first breaths. And the younglings at the Temple, reaching out to a knight they trusted for help… his brothers and sisters cut down by their own men. _Cody_.

All of it can be traced back to his failings.

Which makes all of it his fault.

That overwhelming feeling of guilt and anguish rears up again, lapping at his shields. He tries to draw the Force closer, to strengthen his defences and let Luke slumber on, but it just makes the voices worse, makes the younglings’ echoing cries for help louder in the Force. He chokes back a sob and closes his eyes. They’re begging, unable to understand _why_ , and there’s no-one there to comfort them because they’re just one more noise saturating the darkness of the Force.

But Obi-Wan can hear them. He can’t _stop_ hearing them, and he shouldn’t want to. But he can’t even stop his live charge from crying, what use would he be to the lingering essence of the dead?

His attempts at remaining quiet clearly fail and Luke wakes and starts to cry, drowning out the voices with the sheer willpower of his lungs.

“I know, little one,” he says, rocking the baby, “I know.”

And he does. Nothing is right, nothing is as it should be. And it never will be again.

“We’ll meet up with your sister and I’ll do everything in my power to keep you both safe.”

Not the same way Vader would, but in every way he knows how.


	2. Aayla

He growls from behind her, telling her he’s awake. There had been a worry he wouldn’t. She’d had to hit him hard to finally subdue him, which she guesses is a testimony to the immunity he’s built up, but she’d been beginning to fear the damage would be permanent. She shouldn’t have doubted, though. Clones are a tougher breed than that, engineered to survive against the odds.

“Traitor,” he snarls, oh so unlike himself.

Gone is her sweet Bly, and instead she has this imposter who spits at her as if she’s a Sith herself. She twists around slowly in the pilot’s seat, partly to avoid aggravating her torso, and partly because she finds she’s afraid to face this stranger.

“Commander Bly.”

It’s the first time she’s spoken since she screamed his name as he opened fire, and it hurts, like a hand is still clamped over her throat.

_His_ hand.

He looks how she feels, battered and bloody. The fight he’d given hadn’t been easy, not that she’d expected anything less, not when he’d really been trying to kill her. She’s seen first hand how good he is at that. After the Order she’d been injured and not aiming to kill, and they’d almost been evenly matched.

Angrily he yanks the cuffs, writhing to try to get free, but they hold fast. It’s almost pitiful to see the way his face is scrunched with hatred, disfiguring his tattoos and the very expressions that makes him Bly. He roars when he can’t escape and then goes completely still, as if he were asleep again, only his eyes remain open and his back straight. He might even be joining her for another meditation if it weren’t for the way his legs are splayed out carelessly in front of him and his arms are pinned to the vent at the small of his back.

It’s almost reminiscent of the old Bly, of his wit and cunning and for the first time it makes her uneasy. His eyes don’t leave hers and she turns back to the console simply so she doesn’t have to meet them.

“What happened, Bly?” she asks, as she re-checks the navicomputer again.

“You betrayed us,” he says vehemently. “Led us and the Republic to slaughter, watched as we were cut down. You betrayed the Chancellor. You know what you’ve done.”

The way he says it, with such conviction… he believes in what he’s saying. When she accidently meets his eyes into the reflection of the transparisteel, she’s the one who flinches. This isn’t him, it can’t be. Bly has fought besides her, for the same thing, for years. He knows her better than anyone, has seen her at her lowest and still had faith in her.

Still loved her.

She clings to the brief second of agony she’d sense through their bond. Not because it brings her joy, but because he’d been trying to warn her of danger and she’d felt his need to protect her before it was overwhelmed with the need to kill. This isn’t Bly, she has to believe that, but she can’t explain it. Can’t explain the shift in the aura of any of her men. But she can hope.

He’d loved her, she’d felt it every time he looked at her, and sometimes even when they were apart.

She still loves _him_.

If only she’d told him. But it’s too late now, she can’t tell the thing in front of her. Just do the best to bring her Bly back. She knows that’s an attachment, one forbidden by her own code, but that very code seems to be burning and she can no-longer see the way clearly. Wouldn’t her master be proud.

The pang in her chest doesn’t come from the festering wound. Her comms were cut not long after her escape, and the only contact she’s had with anyone from the Order had been when she’d tuned into Master Kenobi’s cryptic warning on the distress frequency. For all she knows, her master could be one of the thousands of voices crying out into the Force.

“Nothing to say in your own defence?”

She turns back to face him, unable to stay away. The searing pain in her side flares and she stifles a groan. “It’s hard to argue with the deluded,” she grits out.

Drawing energy from the Force only goes so far, and as thick as it is with fear and despair, it comes with a great cost. She can feel her own resolve ebbing away with the pain when she tries, so she doesn’t. But the bleeding still hasn’t stopped, and she doesn’t know if she’ll make it to Kenobi’s rendezvous in time.

A selfish part of her is glad that the navicomputer will get Bly there whether she’s there to pilot or not, but there’s also the doubtful voice in her mind that says he can’t be saved and she’ll be inflicting this imposter on any other survivors. The same doubtful voice also scoffs at the idea of other survivors.

How can anything be saved from _this_?

“I thought the _Jetti_ valued the opinions of the lowly clones, or was that a lie too?” He’s calm now, but the scorn hasn’t left his voice, and that somehow makes his words cut deeper. Especially when he takes on a butchered approximation of his old, softer voice. “If you won’t do the Republic a favour and deal with yourselves, won’t you at least let me do if for you?”

She leans back in the chair and allows herself to slump. The crust of blood obscuring the blaster wounds on her torso cracks, and begin to bleed anew through her best attempt at a field dressing. Made from the only fabric she’d been able to find as she’d stumbled away.

Clone blacks.

“You’ve already dealt with me.”

He looks at her torso blankly, none of his usually panic at seeing her wounded. Then he nods, approvingly. “A long death brings suffering.”

She can’t stop the tears that well in her eyes then and spins the chair back around, wishing she’d left his helmet on to obscure his face. Only, then he’d be able to contact his brothers, _her men_ , and then everything would be over.

It _hurts_.

The Force is hurting, screaming in a way sentients could never manage, and she’s dying all alone, stuck in her worst nightmare. She’d couldn't leave Bly - that hadn't been a choice, not even after everything - but that doesn't make the reality of his presence any easier. She just hopes she can still save him.

Save them both.


	3. Rex

There isn’t long left now. The hours he’s sat through have melted away into minutes, and now there’s only moments until they touch down and step outside into whatever it is awaits them, whatever Master Kenobi has lured them too.

They all loiter uneasily in the entrance, save for Yoke who remains in the cockpit, all unsure if they want to face what’s out there, if it can be worse than in here. There aren’t many of them left, just the skeleton of Torrent. And Commander Tano.

She isn’t doing well, even a shiny could see that. _The Force is screaming_ , she’d said after she’d collapsed, her eyes wide with a terror he’s never seen mirrored on her face before. _I think I might be dying._ He’d been so afraid then, because she’d never admit anything so dramatic even if it were true, not even if she were living her worst nightmare. But she _had_ admitted it, and they’d clung together in that control room as she tried to block it all out, the onslaught of a force Rex couldn’t even see. He’d been helpless to protect her, unable to do anything.

Now she stands with her arms by her side, waiting. They all are. Her montrals are still blanched an unhealthy white, but she’s standing upright unassisted and she’s no-longer clutching her head. It’s a minor improvement, but he’ll take what he can get. She no-longer thinks she might die, but Rex has heard stories of fatal heartbreak and she’d said she could feel her people die, feel their life force ebb into the nether. He knows what that’s like, the loss part at least.

“I’m fine, Rex.” Her eyes remain fixed on a rivet in the hull door.

“I know,” he agrees. “Can’t help but worry all the same.”

“Always the mother hen.” She tilts her head towards him a fraction. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

Rex swallows and looks at his feet. Of course she knows. “I’m sure he is.”

“He’s far more competent than you or I. He’ll have made it out.”

Cody is competent for all of the evidence to the contrary, but Rex still worries about the stubborn _dirkut_ who hadn’t listened. He would have been by Kenobi’s side when the order went live, and they know Kenobi made it. It’s clear in the reports coming from across the galaxy that to be a clone or a Jedi means to kill or be killed. Not that he thinks either could kill the other, not really. He’d seen the way they’d looked when they thought no-one was watching, least of all the other. It doesn’t seem possible that they could take up arms against each other. But then Sixty-Six has proven them all wrong.

There are _so many_ dead.

Neither of them address the banther in the room. Their general has to have survived, just like every time before. There is no other option.

The ship touches down with a small jolt and then the hiss of the hydraulic ramp lowering echoes through the silence. Beyond is a sparse hanger, occupied by a lone figure in familiar tunics.

For a second no-one moves, then Ahsoka is running down the ramp. The brother next to him goes to follow but Rex stops him with a shake of his head.

“Oh, thank the Force.” Kenobi whispers as Ahsoka throws her arms around his neck.

Rex has never known him to be one for physical contact, but these last few weeks have been ones of many firsts. They cling to each other as if the fate of the galaxy depends on it and when they finally break apart they remain within an arms reach of each other.

“I’d feared…” the General says – and isn’t _that_ a strange confession for a Jedi? – “I’d feared you’d passed on.”

“Not yet,” Ahsoka says grimly. “Who- who else is here?”

Kenobi mouth goes tight. “Too few. A couples of knights and masters, more padawans. Master Secura arrived the day before yesterday and she’s still in the medbay. No... no younglings.”

Rex can hear the way his voice catches even from the shadows of the ship.

“Skyguy?”

Kenobi allows Ahsoka’s hands to fall from his and takes a step back. Rex can feel his heart beating in his chest.

“Anakin didn’t make it,” he says quietly.

 _No_.

“There’s still time,” Ahsoka manages, somewhat desperately. “You know he’s never where he’s supposed to be. He’ll see your message any day now, just as I did.”

“Anakin isn’t with us anymore, Ahsoka.” He says it softly enough to be kind, but his voice sounds close to breaking and that’s how Rex really _knows_.

“No, you’re mistaken.” She babbles. “You’re just saying that because you haven’t seen him. He always comes through for us, he wouldn’t leave us.”

He feels numb and a desperate part of him wants to side with Ahsoka, but he knows what loss feels like and he’s never had the luxury of being able to hide from it.

“I have seen him.” General Kenobi’s hand runs through his hair almost violently. “I’m sorry Ahsoka. Anakin… Anakin is dead.”

She steps back, and when she casts her eyes in his direction he can see tears flashing in her eyes that she refuses to let fall.

“Who’s with you?” Kenobi asks, suddenly alert. Almost _paranoid_.

That’s new too.

“Rex and the rest of Torrent,” she sniffs.

It’s as if she’s scalded the General. He flinches and looks in their direction with an uncharacteristically wild suspicion, saber in his hand but unignited.

Ahsoka stumbles to correct her mistake, moving to block his view. “It’s not like that, they’re safe. They’re the only reason I’m still alive to come here in the first place.”

“You brought them here.”

“They’re clean, their chips have been removed.”

Rex’s stomach rolls at the reminder and he can see the brother next to him reflexively reach up to trace his scar. A twitch they all have now.

They were being _controlled_. His brothers still _are_ , all across the galaxy. Since the very beginning they’ve all been timebombs, ticking away in blissful ignorance of their true purpose. They’ve been forced to do the very opposite of what thousands, no _millions_ of them have died for; kill the very people they fought alongside, took into their own family. It’s a blessing Rex is about as Force-sensitive as the plastoid he wears, because if Kenobi is right about the dangers of anger then he’d be a Sith lord to rival the karking Chancellor.

“The chips?” Kenobi asks suspiciously. Then understanding dawns. “The _chips_. Little Force. How were we so blind?” His entire body sags and he slowly lowers his saber and reattaches it to his belt, looking in their direction, into the gloom of the hull.

“Stay here,” Rex growls and strides forwards to Ahsoka’s side. “General,” he greets.

“Captain.” Everything about Kenobi’s body screams defensive, from the tendons taunt in his neck to the distrustful look in his eyes.

Rex meets his gaze but doesn’t step any closer. “We safe, Sir. All de-chipped. None of us carried out Sixty-Six.” A small part of him wants to add he’s still loyal to the Republic, but there isn’t a Republic as such anymore and now it sounds an awful lot like conditioning. “We stayed by the Commander’s side,” he says instead, because it’s true and sounds _right_.

The General doesn’t say anything for a long moment, simply looking at Rex appraisingly and then at Ahsoka.

“Are any of you injured?” he says eventually, cautiously.

“No,” Ahsoka says.

“Yes.” He ignores the look she sends him. “The Commander needs a Force healer.”

He’s fought by her side long enough to know what exhaustion looks like and what illness looks like. She’s been in need of a Jedi healer since before Sixty-Six, and her state hasn’t improved since. There’s only so much they can do for her and they’ve long surpassed their abilities as much as he’s loathed to admit it. The General’s death will do nothing to help her either.

“I’m afraid we only have a padawan healer and they’re still in recovery, but I will do my best. In the meantime, we have food and quarters you can have.” Kenobi flinches and Rex still can’t get over his change in manner. “I’m afraid Torrent will have to stay in them unless told otherwise.” Ahsoka opens her mouth to argue but the General firmly shakes his head. “Too many of the survivors here are still grieving, and many of them were in the Temple when the 501st marched up the steps. I know you had nothing to do with it Rex, but you carry the face of the men who slew their friends and I will not put them through that again.”

He understands, even if it pains him. They were supposed to be saving the Republic, and for all of its faults, it didn’t deserve to die the way it did. Not with his brothers leading the way. _They_ didn’t deserve that either. And he knows it’s not their fault, they were being controlled – still are – but that doesn’t lessen what many think they’ve done willingly. He’s seen the news outlets broadcast across the galaxy; _they’ve cast off their Jedi oppressors._ How could the Jedi not be afraid of them, how could the children understand something that goes against what they’ve seen with their own eyes?

Sixty-six has taken their purpose, their ability to protect their own, their Jedi and the Republic. Taken their General and his brothers, and Kenobi’s self. It hurts him far more than he allows to show.

“I understand, Sir.”


	4. Bail

It would complete his life’s work if he were able to say the Senate is in uproar at the genocide, but that feat would require the effort of many lifetimes, ones he doesn’t have. Instead the majority of Senators have fallen neatly into line behind the new _Emperor_ , parroting stories of the Jedi betrayal. Of their _treason_. Those that refuse have already been disappeared, already been replaced. And even now, not in a way that can be traced back to Palpatine.

Bail himself is careful to keep his head just enough above the surface that he hasn’t attracted any attention, yet. But walking the line between safety and conscience is difficult. He refused to stand on the steps of the desecrated Temple and watch the de-forging of the lightsabers, and it’s marked him apart. The first step to being a troublemaker. Those lightsabers had been gathered from the corpses of children and the old and injured, from his allies and friends, from those who’d saved his life on more than one occasion. He couldn’t stand in line and watch.

Equally he cannot proclaim his indignation, not if he wants to keep his new charge safe. And keep her safe he will, she’s his _daughter_ now. The child of one of his closest confidants. He’d promised Padmé he’d look after her as if she were his own. He owes her that much at least, after what’s happened. And he has no intention of failing.

But it means he has to tread carefully. During the age of the Republic he’d been well known for being one of the outspoken, unafraid to cause trouble. Now, one step out of line will find him in an Imperial cell without a trial, where he’ll be no use to anyone. Instead, he’s biding his time. Making himself useful until it’s safe for him to head to the rendezvous with Leia.

Because if Vader were to ever get his hands on Bail’s charge, then they’ve lost their last hope.

It’s a frustrating predicament. And despite the dangers he finds himself looking for survivors, trying to assess whether there could possibly be any. The image of the padawan being shot down on the Temple platform haunts his dreams and no number of calls with Breha have managed to subdue the memory. He feels guilty, loathing his own failure to intervene, to save that _child_ caught in the crossfire.

And it’s not as if he’s without means.

Any good senator has contacts, those he can trust and those he knows he can’t but can use all the same if he’s careful. Despite his own common sense telling him otherwise, he begins to ask questions, sends off his delegates to inquire at the usual spots for any news. It’s a desperate part of him attempting to justify his own inaction on the Senate floor in this new Empire, and his own inability to save that padawan. He might not have been able to save one, but he could save others, offer them a refuge from this new hostile world.

Were anyone to find out, it could land him in the cell he’s so desperate to avoid. It would expose his daughter to potential harm, and while he would die before he let that happen, he also can’t do _nothing_. That would be worse than accepting the new order of things.

The way things are already heading, he doesn’t think the Imperial Senate will have a life long enough to be worth his investment anyway and he needs to act while he’s still able to, before the Emperor strips them of all but ceremonial role and banishes them back to their respective systems.

It’s for the best, then, that Leia is safe on Alderaan, being introduced to the tedious nature of court life by his wife. He’d stayed long enough to see her officially introduced as the crown princess before returning to Coruscant. They’d agreed it was best if she were to be as far away from the centre of the Empire as possible, from Vader and Palpatine and any that might wish her harm. Anyone who could figure out who she really is.

Never had he expected to miss her already. Breha had been right about him being wrapped around her little finger. Because he is, _willingly_. It hurts his heart Padmé isn’t here to see it.

His office space is empty now. He sent his aids home hours ago, unable to stand them loitering by his side. They’re worried about him, he knows, and since the fall of the Republic he’s been struggling to find enough work for them all to do. It gives them the time to hover by his side until he dismisses them in frustration. And as much as he loathes to admit it, without the war his own workload is suddenly far lighter. He knows it’s not the fault of peacetime, because there should be rebuilding efforts to organise and the finalising of treaties to sign, but the Emperor doesn’t need lowly senators to do that anymore. He simply points at systems and they fall into line without ever having to be corralled by the Senate.

Aide isn’t provided if they disobey.

The flickering of the dying sun lights up his office, casting long shadows across the floor. It used to be a comfort, the sign that he’d survived to the end of another day. Even if he _would_ stay until the early hours of the morning regardless. Now it’s eerie, makes the space feel larger, more hostile. And when there’s a small knock at his door he’s not proud to say he jumps slightly before shaking himself. He has every right to be here. This is _his_ office.

“Come in.”

The door opens a fraction and a figure slips in.

They’re small and slight, and don’t appear to be a threat. But they’ve somehow slipped past his guards without an appointment.

“Please, take a seat.”

The figure steps out of the shadows and drops back their hood. It’s a young tholothian girl with a scaled headdress and blue eyes far too apprehensive for her age. She moves forward to perch on the end of the chair opposite Bail, looking as if she could take flight at any second.

He puts down his stylus, careful not to make any sudden movements, resisting the urge to cross the desk to her side. It’s clear she needs the barrier between them to feel safe.

“What can I do for you?” he asks, because he doesn’t know how else to begin and she doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to explain herself.

A small hand emerges from a sleeve to fuss with the hem of the too-large robe.

“You’ve been asking questions,” she says, carefully. “Ones no-one else has been asking.”

Bail schools his face carefully. He wouldn’t put it past the Emperor to use children in his game. It seems he’d done it enough during the war.

“You’re a friend, I think,” she continues. “Or you were, once.”

He doesn’t say anything. He likes to think he’s been a friend to many people.

“I just… I don’t know where else to go.”

The hand darts back into the sleeve, to something he can’t see. If his guards come in to find him shot at the hands of a child… well. It’s not like he’ll be around to say anything about it.

“Are you lost, or do you need to find someone? There are services I could refer you to.”

“I- I don’t think that would be a good idea,” she says and then shakes her head. “This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come, I’m sorry.” She’s on her feet and making for the door faster than he thought possible.

It’s a tell he’s picked up from being around Jedi too long, one that comes out when they’re afraid or injured and lose their concentration for just a moment. When they forget their own reflexes. “Wait!”

Her hand hovers over the door controls, but she doesn’t go to open them.

“You’re a Jedi,” he says, and she freezes as he curses himself for his lack of tact. “You were right to come here for help. That is why you’re here, isn’t it? I _can_ help you.”

He can get her back to her people, to as much safety as she’s going to find in this new world.

“How?” she asks cautiously.

“I can get you safe passage off Coruscant, keep you hidden from the Empire.”

There’s a tense moment in which she seems to weigh up the offer. He knows the choices presented to her are not kind; she can face certain capture in the place she once called her home for a crime she hasn’t committed, or in her endeavour to escape she can trust that a stranger will not turn her over to her pursers. It isn’t a choice a child should have to make.

The thing about Jedi, he’s noticed, is that they cling to hope. No matter how small it seems to be.

“How many can you get off Coruscant?” she asks.

He can barely contain the small bloom in his chest. Maybe he’s been around Jedi too long or maybe it’s the chance to finally be able to do something proactive. Either way, the fledgling Rebellion is built on hope. It’s _all_ they’ve got. “More of you got away?”

“A… a few of us managed to make it through one of the lower passages before it was blockaded. Master Fara helped us.”

“Where is she now?”

The child shakes her head and looks at her feet.

 _But the children got out_ , is all he can think, _some of them made it_.

“We need to get you away from here as soon as possible. The longer you’re here, the more danger there is of us getting caught.”

She looks up at him resolutely. “Then what are we waiting for?”

**Author's Note:**

> The plan is to have differing perspectives of Order 66 but one coherent story. I'll tag the characters as I go along :)
> 
> All mistakes can be blamed on sleep deprivation.


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